A Good Man
by 2hearts1soul
Summary: This is Lestrade's story, what happened after the fall and how he deals wth the aftermath. Now Sherlock has escaped the medias grasping clutches, Lestrade is the next target in the firing line. Beware Spoilers if you haven't seen the series 2.
1. Prologue

**A Good Man**

Prologue

"_Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day if we are very, very lucky, he might even be a good one"_

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade remembers his words to John Watson, that cold dry February night nearly two years go, as he turned to leave the flat at 221B Baker Street, almost in despair.  
It was after the failed drug bust stunt, when he had tried to get Sherlock to co-operate properly on the case of the fake suicide serial murders, when he had thought he was at last getting somewhere and finally reaching him because John Watson was now added to the dynamic, and then Sherlock had abandoned them all to satisfy his egotistical need to prove how bloody clever he was and sat docile and smug in the back of that damned taxi driven off by the actual serial killer.

It is a cold but bright day and the sunlight streams through the stained glass window providing the only colours in the dim building with its dark suited sombre inhabitants.

Mostly it's quiet, soft murmuring, soft breathing and a tangible air of disbelief.

He's standing at the back of the church listening to Dr Watson stumbling his way through an eulogy the ex-soldier is still in too much shock to deliver properly.

He's standing at the back of the church watching Mrs Hudson's frail shoulders shudder with sobs.

He's standing at the back of the church watching Henry Knight shake his head with disbelief and anger.

He's standing at the back of the church watching a group of homeless young people sitting uncomfortably in the pews, but determined to be there despite any disapproving stares.

He's standing at the back of the church watching a woman cry, the same woman from Devon who was released from the bomb jacket once Sherlock had solved the mystery of Carl Powers death.

He's standing at the back of the church watching tears pour down the face of the owner of that Italian restaurant, Angelo, the one he put away for burglary five years ago, because Sherlock had got him off a nasty murder charge by providing evidence of the burglary, which had earned Sherlock, Angelo's undying gratitude and unending free meals

He's standing at the back of the church watching Dr Molly Hooper shrink in on herself and refuse to look at anyone else.

He's standing at the back of the church watching DI Dimmock sing the hymns solemnly and make the responses clearly as if he is a regular church goer

He's standing at the back of the church watching the pale but composed face of Mycroft Holmes, his back rigid and his knuckles white on the mahogany handle of his black umbrella, which perfectly matches the impeccable black suit.

He's standing at the back of the church watching that beautiful personal assistant to Mycroft Holmes focus on her boss with the same expression she normally reserved for her blackberry which was nowhere in sight.

He's standing at the back of the church giving Sgt Sally Donovan the evil eye as she slips into the building, head down, refusing to look at him and seating herself away from everyone else.

He's standing at the back of the church looking at pews full of people that had come to pay their respects to the consulting detective. So many more than he had expected after the media's frenzied blood letting.

He's standing at the back of the church cracking his knuckles waiting and (truth be told) wishing for any of the media to attempt to gate crash this ritual. But it looked like Mycroft Holmes had at least protected Sherlock's final public appearance if he hadn't been able to protect him before.

He's standing at the back of the church because he can't bear to look at that long wooden box with the brass handles which holds the physical remains of that great, vibrant, infuriating, amusing man-child who would now never get to be that "good man" and it hurts his heart to know that he had played his own integral part in that lost potential.

He's standing at the back of the church, remembering the graffiti on the cemetery wall by the entrance gates in bright bold yellow letters and he makes a silent heartfelt vow to himself and his onetime colleague and maybe friend.

"_I believe in Sherlock Holmes, Moriarty was real_".

* * *

AN

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, no infringement intended. Only 

This is going to be Lestrade's reaction to the fall and its coming aftermath. I could just see him standing there watching everything , taking it all in "seeing" whats in front of him because he doesn't want to look at that coffin.  
There is more angst and mystery coming

I was being so good, nearly finished the next chapter for "**And then there was three", **when Lestrade began to nag me to write this... who in their right mind could resist that man, sigh.

Please review, I need to know what you think and how I can improve it...


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: No infringment intended, but if he was mine, he would be so much happier.. just saying !**

**Warning: Some sweary words**

**A Good Man**

_**Chapter 1 **_

Greg Lestrade read through the letter from the Metropolitan Police's human resources department a second time. It had dropped through his letter box this morning, on his first day off since before well before Sherlock's fall. They had timed it well. How embarrassing for all concerned if he had gone to work and been forced to leave immediately, escorted from the building by one of his subordinates.

He had known it was coming but a part of him hadn't believed it. He was a good copper damn it, this was his life and they couldn't just take it away from him because of uncorroborated unsubstantiated allegations against a dead man, who now could not defend himself.

"_Blah blah. Indefinite suspension on full pay, whilst internal investigations undertaken to determine whether disciplinary proceedings would be initiated. Blah blah. Bringing the metropolitan police force into disrepute, blah blah, allowing unauthorised access to crime scenes and case files, the scale of the review needed into past convictions_"… _blah blah blah blah._

He was banned from his office, he was banned from talking to his colleagues, he was banned from talking to the media but of course he had the opportunity to speak to the police federation representative or had the right to his own legal representation should he feel the need and therefore might want to hire the services of his own lawyer.

Well the police fed rep was out, he would be double damned and dipped in acid before he started talking to fucking Anderson who was his local rep, ever again, he would rather chop off his left leg and beat Peter Anderson to death with it than talk to the little shit, so looked like he was going to have to get his own brief.

He'd known this was coming. He was surprised that Chief Inspector Braithwaite (that git from Yorkshire) had waited for a whole month after Sherlock's death, especially since he blamed Lestrade personally for John breaking his nose. He bitterly regretted the fact that he was on the street with Sherlock when John head-butted the sod and he didn't get to see it. He had wanted to do that since the man took up his position four months before.

He'd known it was coming, every time he was mobbed by the press going into work or coming out of work, like when that red headed bitch Kitty Reilly had been waiting for him at his home, trying to get his kids to talk to her about that "_nasty man Sherlock and their darling daddy_". His kids for Christ sake. His kids.

He had very nearly lost it that night and put the fear of God and the Devil into her, but he had used his head instead and called in a favour from the desk sergeant at the local station, and all of a sudden catty Kitty's car was being towed none too gently by the biggest tow truck he had ever seen, with the ugliest brute of a driver and she was running after it like a screeching harpy. It did his heart good to see that opportunistic lying hack actually sweat over something.

After that little episode his wife had left and taken the kids to stay with her parents in Sussex. He knew what that meant, it was her excuse for finally starting the divorce proceedings, but he promised himself that she would have a bloody fight on her hands for custody of his kids

He'd known it was coming every time he got to a crime scene and heard the muttered comments of some of his "colleagues" and the icy silence from on high when he asked for extra resource on a case or permission to review past cases.

"_You can't kill an idea"_ Sherlock had mocked as he had tapped Greg on the forehead, when they had stood in the living room at Baker Street and Greg had practically begged him to come to the station with him. He hadn't believed that monstrous idea, he had known Sherlock too long and seen his gift too often but he had to follow procedure, he had to eliminate him from the enquiries.  
Dear God why hadn't the lad trusted him to look after him? He'd been there for him at Baskerville, he'd been there for him so many times, even if the little git had pretended he hadn't known his name, but it killed him that Sherlock hadn't trusted him at the end.

Greg had looked into Sherlock's blazing eyes and seen through the cold amusement to the despair beneath and he had still turned and walked away from him. God forgive him, if only he had gone with his instincts instead of following his duty that day.

"_Sherlock you idiot, we could have fought it together. The evidence was all there just waiting for them, all the cases were too well documented, we could have sorted it and of course the media crap had been a fit up by that scumbag Moriarty_".

Now, now he had to fight to clear the name of a dead man, when nobody was interested, when it was so much more fun to slander and libel the man, and read the ridiculous stories about him, if Sherlock had been alive, he would have had rights, and it would have been easier. But it didn't matter, if it was the last thing he could do for Sherlock Holmes, he would clear his name. He was a detective inspector of New Scotland Yard, and he was fucking good at his job, even if most of his colleagues had conveniently forgotten it.

So far only Ian Dimmock had the guts to actually talk to him properly, loudly declaiming that he believed in Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty was real, and if anyone was idiotic enough to believe the crap in those trashy newspapers then they were as stupid as Sherlock always said they were, in front of a flushing Anderson, and grim faced Donovan and staring at them unblinkingly so they had no doubt who he was talking about.

Ian Dimmock shook his hand formally and said

"_Best DI on the force and they had better not forget it" _

He had been touched by that display of solidarity, almost as much as he had been hurt by Sally Donovan's betrayal. That particular knife thrust had been deep.

They had worked together for nearly eight years; he had seen her potential as a young copper when he had been called to a crime scene on her beat. She had been quietly efficient and smart, pointing out little things that his more experienced staff had missed because they hadn't taken the crime seriously. A young drug addict beaten to death for his stash. Sally Donovan had cared and wanted to get the person responsible. She'd known the kid from her beat, and she had cared.

God he'd known that she didn't like Sherlock, he had let her vent her spleen because Sherlock was a complete git sometimes, he had warned her about her attitude but not stopped the use of the word Freak because Sherlock always came up with nastier put downs anyway, but for her to turn on her boss and friend and betray him in such a way just to get to Sherlock, he wasn't going to forgive her for that. If by some miracle he kept his job and his position in the force, then Sally was gone. He wouldn't work with her again.

As she passed him on the way out of the church after the funeral, he bent his head towards her and asked her coldly in a low vicious voice.

"_Came to make sure the freak's actually dead did you Donovan, just in case what you did wasn't enough to destroy him?"_

She paled and he even thought there was a flash of hurt in her eyes but as she went to say something, he interrupted

"_Don't bother, there's nothing you could say that I am possibly interested in."_

And he had turned his back on her.

As for Anderson, that little weasel wasn't even worth a second of his attention, but again, he would find another forensic officer to work with if he came back from this.

He'd known it was coming when he had read the headlines

"**Confidential Information given to Sherlock Holmes the Fraud by New Scotland Yard"**

"**Lestrade, Holmes Pet Policeman?"**

"**Lestrade Fraud or Fool?" **

"**Fraudulent Farce costs the British Tax payer?** "

Oh he loved that last one; they had never paid that snobby bugger a penny, but what was the truth to the tabloids when they got their teeth into something.

But he had really known it was coming and that it was going to be bad, very bad, when he received the text:

_**Detective Inspector Lestrade, **_

_**I am truly sorry for what's about to happen.**_

_**MH**_

* * *

_**AN: Poor Lestrade and he hadn't even had to deal with John yet ! A "Brief" by the way is london slang for a solicitor (lawyer). So please let me know what you think.. reviews would be fabulous xx**_


	3. Chapter 2

Warning: Some Swearing and a bit of violence

Chapter 2.

For the first few days of his suspension, Greg Lestrade decided to treat it as an unexpected holiday. He would ignore that sick feeling in his stomach, ignore the outside world, ignore everyone and everything, eat crap food, drink real ale (from a can), slob out whilst watching premier league football matches, re-runs of Doctor Who, especially Doctor 4 and Leila, the gorgeous tribal warrior with the skimpy outfits and the bad ass attitude.

As a young lad he had wanted to marry Sarah Jane Smith, she had been his ideal woman, but Leila, oh boy Leila had awakened his….. well never mind, that was a long time ago but it had been fun. Then he was going to work his way through his entire collection of old Sci-fi DVD's including _Star Trek_, _Next Gen, Voyager_, (Seven of Nine was bloody hot!) _DS9,_ _Blake's Seven_, _Space 1999_, _Forbidden Planet_ and _The Quatermass experiment._

He wanted his mind to stop thinking, he wanted his heart to stop hurting, he wanted his boys home to watch them with him, they would laugh and jeer at the crappy special effects but the stories would enthral them as they had done him, he just wanted to pretend his life hadn't gone down the toilet, that everything hadn't gone to hell in a hand basket without him even knowing why.  
To pretend that he hadn't just lost his family, his career, his friends, Sherlock, his reputation, his whole fucking life because of a frightened little girl's scream and the personal antagonism and professional jealousy of his own team. To pretend that he hadn't had his heart burnt out of him in a power play he knew nothing about.

So by God he was going to wallow right now and enjoy it before having to face the real world again.

Greg Lestrade had always been a fighter and he knew he would come out swinging soon, but this was his time, he needed to lick his wounds in private before he could summon the anger, determination and outrage back. He knew they were there waiting in his subconscious for him to get back to them, but right now he needed this interlude, time-out, this break so that he could recharge his batteries and not weep like a little kid at the slightest provocation.

He turned off his mobile phone, unplugged his landline, closed his curtains and locked all the doors.

He didn't wash, shave, change his pants or socks for three days, and he revelled in it.

He even slept on the sofa because he couldn't face that king size bed by himself. Damn what he wouldn't have given just to have his wife's arms around him one last time, just to comfort him when he woke up from dreaming of that horrible day, and seeing Sherlock's body in the morgue. Simple human comfort even if she hated his guts now.

He thought about smoking, he lost count of the number of times he put his coat on and went to go out for a packet, but the image of the pair of them, in the living room at 221B Baker Street, he and Sherlock during that drugs bust, flashing those damn nicotine patches at each other like a big boy's pissing contest, and the reluctant amused acceptance in Sherlock's eyes that lasted all of a minute before Anderson irritated him again, made him smile painfully, and feel like he was defiling his memory in some crazy way and wasn't that a bloody good boot to the bollocks, and his idiot brain, so he ignored the irritating craving and concentrated on his crap TV instead.

He woke up on the fourth morning to a pounding on his front door, which matched the pounding in his head from the days old hangover. He fell off the sofa in surprise which did nothing improve his mood.

"_Oh for the love of God, Shut the fuck up_" he shouted in fury, then grabbed his temples and groaned aloud as the noise he made reverberated through his poor aching head.

The pounding on the door stopped for all of thirty seconds, and then continued with renewed vigour.

"_I'm a professional mate, I know how to get rid of dead bodies, and no-one will ever find you because Sherlock is not here anymore_"

He muttered viciously under his breath, as he stumbled angrily towards that bloody noisy door, who knew a PVC door could sound so loud when someone was hitting it, he knew he was not exactly dressed appropriately for visitors, in his grey fan-boy Tardis tee (his boys had bought it for him on fathers day the year before and he bloody loved it) and a rancid pair of grey baggy boxer shorts, with bare feet, wild man hair, bloodshot eyes, unwashed body and stinky breath. He didn't give a shit. They wanted attention; they were going to get it.

But he did at least have the presence of mind to check for those bastards from the press, he was under no illusions that the Chief Inspector had already thrown him to the wolves, before he opened the door and repeatedly punched the stupid inconsiderate sod who was using a battering ram to get his attention.

He couldn't see any obvious signs of the media hordes which had dogged him previously, so he flung open the door and the stupid inconsiderate sod fell through with his body's own momentum and landed on his face in front of Greg's bare feet.

God he was so tempted, a swift kick to the temple to replicate the pounding pain in his own head would be poetic justice, just one satisfying kick, one little satisfying kick, but he reluctantly and bitterly remembered that he was an officer of the law (suspended) and put his half raised foot back down again.

He slammed the front door shut, and winced at the sound.

He focused his bleary, gritty eyes on the lad lying on the floor in front of him, Black DM boots on his feet, black jeans, black hoody pulled up over his head, short, slender build for a lad.

"_Who are you and what the fuck do you want_?" he growled with real menace at the prone lad.

The lad made no answer, just started to push himself up off the ground, but Greg's foot landed on the back of his neck, and pushed his head unceremoniously back into the hallway tiles with a nasty thud.

"_I asked you a question sunshine and you aren't moving from there until I get an answer_". He pressed his foot harder into the lad's neck in warning.

There was a muffled groan from the lad, but he made no attempt to struggle, keeping his arms relaxed and hands wide apart in an odd horizontal version of the position normally adopted by suspects being searched. So the lad had form did he?

The foot pressed hard enough to hurt and with the potential to do real damage and the lad knew it. Greg could feel the pulse in the lad's neck speed up through his bare foot and hear the laboured breathing. He smiled with vicious satisfaction.

The lad tried to say something but it was muffled by having his face ground into the black and white tiles. Greg eased his foot back but kept enough pressure on him for the lad to know he was in serious trouble if he tried anything.

"_For Christ sake Guv, let me up please_" pleaded Sally Donovan with a gasp.

* * *

**AN:** So what do you think? "Having form" is slang for being in trouble with the police previously. "Guv" is short for Governor, used by London police especially as a way to address their Boss (or so they always said on the wonderful TV programme The Bill)

My lovely Lestrade is wallowing, but not for much longer. Please review, it would be much appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **Based on the BBC Sherlock characters, no infringement intended, just playing til Series 3.


	4. Chapter 3

A Good Man

**Chapter 3**

"Get out" Lestrade said simply, removing his foot from her neck and walked away back to the living room, leaving the bizarrely dressed Sergeant flat on her face in his hallway.

Donovan heaved herself painfully up off the black and white tiles, rubbing at the back of her neck where the Inspector's foot had so painfully rested. Her head was throbbing from the direct hit when he had ground her face into those same tiles with no warning.

She rested back on her heels for a long moment, convinced if she actually stood up she would fall straight back down again. She had forgotten just how dangerous her boss could be. Then again she had never actually been on the receiving end before. Always had been her trouble, not thinking things through properly and then having to deal with the consequences of her impulsive actions and her big mouth.

Shit, she couldn't leave without speaking to him, and right now she couldn't leave full stop. If she moved she was going to throw up all over those pretty black and white tiles which were starting to waver as she stared at them. She closed her eyes hoping that would help, but big mistake, the nausea and dizziness grew instead of receding, and she didn't see Lestrade come back to the hallway, hair wet from a quick shower and now dressed in jeans and a clean tee-shirt with a pair of comfortable old trainers on, instead of barefoot and half naked in his shorts and top.

"_What are you still doing here?"_ his cold voice queried.

She swallowed, trying to talk through the sick feeling overwhelming her.

"_Can't move, feel sick_" she got out through gritted teeth.

"_Not on my bloody floor you don't_" he growled unimpressed but she was helped up with a strangely gentle grasp and then half carried, half dragged to the downstairs washroom, where he placed her carefully right next to the toilet bowl, just in time for her to lose the contents of her stomach.

When she had finished, a glass of water was handed to her without comment and the bowl was flushed. She muttered her thanks with a touch of resentment, it went against the grain to appear weak in front of anybody, she had fought to prove herself as capable as any man at her job, but to do this in front of Greg Lestrade, the man, the professional, she had always admired, despite his inexplicable toleration and even liking for the fre...Sherlock Holmes, made the embarrassment even worse.

This visit was meant to be proving her worth as a copper to him, and mending fences after the fiasco with Sherlock, not showing him how bloody useless, weak and girly she was.

She used the water to wash out her mouth and get rid of the disgusting taste, still with her eyes closed; trying to summon up the guts to actually open her eyes and look at Lestrade.

When she did, when her gaze travelled up to the face of the man standing beside her, she just about managed to stop the hateful flush of embarrassment which wanted to flood her face. His cool gaze surveyed her impersonally and she felt the chill straight through to her backbone.

"_How do you feel now?"_ he asked indifferently, obviously trying to gauge how quickly he could throw her out of his house. A spurt of face-saving anger made her hiss "_Like someone ground my face into the floor with their foot_".

For a millisecond she would have sworn that amusement warmed the frozen dark eyes into their customary chocolate brown, willing to laugh at the absurdities of life. But it disappeared as if it had never been there and his expression went back to coldly impassive.

He left the room, Donovan was confused and disappointed. She thought he would at least help her to her feet before he threw her out of his house. She gritted her teeth and forced herself up by sliding her body up the wall and hanging for dear life onto the sink whilst her wobbly legs tried to take her weight.

"_What the hell are you doing Sally?" _She looked at him in surprise, sweat visible on her upper lip and at her temples. He handed her an icepack and painkillers. She looked at them as if she couldn't figure out what to do with them, then heard a sigh from the man standing opposite her, who unbent enough to hook an arm around her shoulders and say. _"I can't pick you up in here Donovan, not enough room, can you get out to the hallway with my help"_

She nodded wordlessly; despair at the realisation that he was actually going to bodily threw her out of the house kept her silent. Christ she still needed to talk to him, it was important and she knew he wouldn't allow her a second chance to get near him, this was it, and she'd used the element of surprise to get to him which would be a one off with DI Lestrade, he always learnt from his mistakes, except when it came to the Freak.

She shamelessly used his assistance to exit the bathroom, trying desperately to come up with something that would allow her to more time to speak to him, when he suddenly bent and put his other arm underneath her legs and hefted her easily up to his chest. The quick movement made the dizziness worse and for a second she concentrated on ignoring the rising wave of nausea again.

She stiffened in his arms, but to her utter confusion he turned away from the front door and took her into the living room, laying her gently down on the sofa.

"_I will call an ambulance, you need some medical attention_" he said gruffly, a hint of worry in his voice.

"_No, no don't do that sir, if they find out I've come to see you it will look bad for your disciplinary, I don't need an ambulance" _she replied in panic. This fiasco was bad enough, no way was she adding a trip in a sodding ambulance and all that form filling to the mix, shit this visit was supposed to be under the radar.

The look on his face was typical DI Lestrade when one of his team had pissed him off, it almost made her smile, the unforgiving iceman act he had been subjecting her to since the Fre.. Sherlock the arsehole had taken that dive off the roof at St Barts, had bloody hurt.

She just needed to rest for a while, just close her eyes for a little while then she could sort this mess out. She closed her eyes

Lestrade looked down at the unconscious woman on his couch. What the fuck, he needed to get her some medical attention, but she had been adamant about the ambulance. What the hell was she doing here? He really didn't care; he just needed to get her fit enough to her out of his house, without further damage to his fucking career or his reputation. His time out was well and truly over. No more self-indulgent moping. Time to deal with this bloody nightmare once and for all.

Donovan whimpered and her skin looked cold and clammy as she lay there.

He shook his head; there was only one possible option now.

He picked up his mobile phone and selected a number. A well used number. He hesitated, indecisive, not wanting to do it this way. This was such a bloody bad idea, he didn't know what reaction he was likely to get but he could make pretty good guess. This was not going to be fair or pleasant. He had no choice.

He pressed the call button and waited for it to be answered.

"Its Greg, I need your help…. John"

* * *

**AN**: Pleae read and review. Thoughts, comments would be very helpful.. ta muchly x

**Disclaimer**: As previously, not mine, only playing


	5. Chapter 4

**A Good Man ***Chapter Revised*** Please re-read. Thanks**

**Warning: angsty, and lots of swearing . T**

**Chapter 5.**

"_Tell me why I am standing here Lestrade_" the fury in John Watson's voice was frightening. The two men were standing in Greg's living room looking at the unconscious woman on the sofa. "_Tell me why I won't be leaving this house in the next two seconds and tell me why I should ever talk to you again"_, the bone deep rage in those indigo eyes made Lestrade swallow nervously.

John Watson was a good man, a good friend, a good doctor and a dangerous enemy.

Lestrade decided to keep it simple and hoped he still had his own teeth at the end of the explanation

_"I need your help John; she needs your help John_"

The look on his face made Lestrade take an involuntary step backwards.

"_Wrong answer Greg_" he growled and began to turn away, his limp once more obvious

"_Oh for the love of God, I told him not to call an ambulance_" the acerbic but weak voice of Sally Donovan interrupted, "_but instead of letting me rest, he panics because he thinks he's given me brain damage and calls you as a last resort. It's only a touch of concussion._" She finished with a world weary sigh.

"_There would have to be an actual brain in situ for there to be any damage to it_" Lestrade responded nastily.

To the surprise of both men, Donovan actually gave a weak chuckle, and then gingerly pushed herself up into a sitting position, taking deep breathes to stave off the rising nausea

"_If he calls an ambulance, then it becomes official and he's in even more shit than he is now. I am not supposed to be here, but it will be worse for him than me at least I won't lose my job." _

She spoke through gritted teeth without looking at either of them.

John watched her impassively; ignoring the almost pleading look sent his way by Lestrade. Saw the pale sweating skin, the struggle to hold the nausea at bay, the pain on her face.

Then suddenly the rigidity left his shoulders, he was a Doctor for gods sake and he had medically treated enough of the enemy as a soldier fighting a war that this shouldn't be a problem even though it was personal. If he wasn't going to shoot the bitch, then he had to treat 'd have preferred to shoot her. He bent to open his bag.

He ignored Lestrade's almost inaudible sigh of relief. He sat beside her, gently touching the swelling on her forehead and fingers tracing all the way round her skull, ignoring her flinching.

"_What happened?"_ he asked her reluctantly, but it was Lestrade who answered coldly "_She was pounding on my front door like a mad bastard, when I flung it open it she fell flat on her face, I thought she was an intruder_" his tone of voice confirmed that she still was "so_ I slammed her head into the tiles and kept her there_".

John looked up at him with surprise, and was actually unwillingly impressed; the soft spoken detective inspector could be a hard man when he wanted.

"_Got any frozen peas_?" John asked as he checked her eyes with a small flash light.

"_Frozen peas?_ " Greg repeated confused. "_Anything that can be refrozen if you don't have an __ice-pack_" he explained. "_It will help to reduce the swelling, and bring me some water so she can take some paracetamol, no Ibuprofen it could cause a bleed, and she needs to be watched for 48 hours."_  
His voice was calm, professional and devoid of emotion but his eyes blazed with his anger.

"_48 hours_" protested Lestrade "_She can't stay her for 48 hours for Christ sake"_

_"Thanks a bunch Guv" _Donovan muttered resentfully, "_you don't need to worry about it, as soon as I can stand without puking I'm out of here"_

John studied the pair of them unemotionally and carried on his examination.

"_There doesn't appear to be any worse damage than concussion but I would recommend she goes to A&E to be checked out properly"_

He spoke to Greg but Sally answered him before Greg could respond. _"No, I said no ambulance, I won't jeopardise his career_" was her stubborn response

"_Anymore than you have already you mean_" John reacted instantly with ice cold venom.

Sally stiffened and raised her aching head, her eyes as angry as John's.

"_Sherlock Holmes put the Detective Inspector's career in jeopardy when he admitted to being a fraud"_ she retaliated with dislike

"_If you weren't a woman..."_ John's tone was total menace but Sally didn't back down "_Oh don't let that stop you Doctor_" the contempt in her voice obvious.

"_That's enough the pair of you" _barked Greg in his riot control voice, and Donovan sank back against the sofa breathing rapidly.

John picked up her wrist and felt her pulse. It was too fast. His voice was back to professional impersonal detachment.

"_You need to avoid stressful situations until you have recovered from the concussion"_

He surprised himself by almost smiling when Sally gave an unwilling snort of laughter. Donovan had guts, and as an ex soldier he had always appreciated bravery even if he couldn't stand the person showing it.

Greg watched the two of them interacting, uneasily aware that if Donovan really upset John then as a soldier and a doctor he could do her some real damage. Not that the honourable John Watson would ever do that normally, but this wasn't a normal fucking situation was it. Sherlock was dead, John was grieving and hating everyone who dared to call Sherlock a fraud, even Sherlock himself at times.

Looking at Donovan, at her strange clothes, remembering her stubborn and loud insistence on getting his attention made his policeman's instincts kick in. A bit belatedly he recognised but they did kick in. Donovan had come to him for a reason; she had even tried to be inconspicuous so that no-one else would recognise her.  
What the hell did she want?

"_Donovan, what the hell are you doing here in the first place?"_

"_Took you long enough to ask Guv, been enjoying the beer too much on your break?"_ she asked with affectionate amusement, whilst her eyes were still closed, then at the distinctly chilly silence, she sighed and opened her eyes again. Her gaze moved from Lestrade to Watson and back again, she seemed to make up her mind and thrust her chin out in that stubborn challenging gesture they both knew so well

"_You both believed every word that came out of his mouth didn't you_" she remarked bitterly

"_Sally_" Greg warned angrily

"_Fuck it_" John muttered and began to move away from her

_"No, you listen to me, just listen to me for once_" her voice was stern and unrelenting.

The two men faced her unwillingly; she stared at the pair of them with a strange expression that could almost be pity.

"_I know he got things wrong, I know it do you understand_" and before either of them could react she turned to John and said "_The night we met, do you remember what he said to Anderson before he went into the house, the night he started that stupid rumour about the pair of us having an affair"_

Lestrade said coldly_ "You were having an affair with Anderson"_

To their surprise Donovan smiled sadly "_Even you believed it, because Sherlock said it, after knowing me for years, you believed it."_

The disappointment in her voice made Lestrade feel uncomfortable and he shifted angrily but she continued relentlessly

"_Heather Anderson is my best friend, we grew up in care together_, _I spent the night at their house getting pissed with my best friend when she found out about her husband's affair with one of the other forensic scientists. I was on my knees in the Anderson's kitchen because she sat on that floor breaking her heart and I was holding her. I didn't have a change of clothes with me and I had to use the downstairs shower room when I left so as not to wake Heather up. And fucking hey, there was only Peter's deodorant in the downstairs shower because he's the only one that uses it._

_I wouldn't touch Peter Anderson with a fucking barge-pole, I work with him because I'm a professional and because Heather begged me not to upset the apple-cart when she decided to forgive him and try again. So Sherlock Holmes got it wrong and he damaged my professional reputation, because not one of my so called friends and colleagues would believe me when I told them it wasn't true, so forgive me if I have a problem believing a word that little shit ever said because I fucking know he got things wrong."_

The two men stared at her appalled; John shook his head "_I don't ..."_

"_Of course you don't believe it, and right now the only reason I brought it up is because I need you to listen to me"_  
Sally said tiredly, shaking her head with grim amusement. "_Do you want Heather's telephone number?" _she asked with a mocking little smirk.

Lestrade was struggling to make sense of it all. "_You came here to tell me that Sally?_" he asked confused.

_"No, that wasn't it, I wasn't going to mention it, but your smug self righteous attitudes just…"_ she stopped as she saw them stiffen. "For the love of God just shut up Sally" she ordered herself silently, a slanging match would not be helpful; she had to focus on her priority for coming here.

"_I came to you because despite what you think of me after what happened, I am still a copper and there's something not right about this at all"_

John's scornful huff was instinctive, but he was now furiously curious and he bit back the rest of his reaction.

"_What made you change your mind?_ Lestrade was still bewildered by her attitude

She said belligerently,

"_I didn't say I had changed my mind, but it's_ t_hat fucking so called suicide note, please Sherlock Holmes calling himself a fraud? No way in hell would that arrogant self aggrandising freak have called himself a fraud and especially not to Dr John Watson, his best friend, unless there was something else going on."_

Her gimlet stare at John Watson dared him to contradict her; he had stiffened at her offensive words but reluctantly agreed with the logic behind them.

Her breath was ragged with a combination of pain and rage and she ground out

_"If someone used me to help destroy Sherlock Holmes then so help me I will find them and hang the bastards out to dry."_

The two men looked at each other incredulously. Greg Lestrade began to remember why he had picked Sally Donovan for his team in the first place and John Watson was having a hard time reconciling this Sgt Donovan with the one he had known since that first crime scene at Lauriston Gardens.

She looked up at the pair of them and told them baldly, her eyes wincing at the light

"_I wanted him to be a fraud, I wanted that so badly but you don't mean to tell me that the man who could come up with that so called criminal master__mind scheme would throw himself off a fucking roof because he was found out. That clever bastard could have "deduced" his way out of that charge quicker than he fell off that fucking roof."_

She closed her eyes for a few seconds and drew a deep calming breath, then looked Greg Lestrade fiercely in the eyes, so that he could see the truth of her words

"_So I will make you a deal Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, I will help you investigate this and if this is true, if your beloved Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, a cheat and dishonest to his bones then you will bloody admit it, you will grovel to the disciplinary board, say and do anything to keep your bloody job because they can't afford to lose you, and move on and forget him."_

She had pointed her finger at him as if it was some kind of gun but then her hand dropped as she paused, and the tone of her voice changed, it became more deliberate as if her next words were something she had considered painfully and had come to a disquieting and uncomfortable realisation

_"If this is all some wicked lie, if he was set up, if the freak wasn't a fraud, I will help you clear his name, I will help you find the people behind it, I will stand there and say I was wrong and then I will resign from the force. Because if it is a lie then God help me, I shouldn't be a copper at all."_

* * *

**_AN:_**

_Have revised the chapter, but it still falls in with the story line. Got rid of the contentious miscarriage thread..so hopefully it reads better and makes more sense,_

_So what do you think about Sally? I always thought that Sherlock must have really hurt her for her to be such a cow to him. Please let me know what you think._

_Coming up: Lestrade is going to get more offers of help, from some really unexpected sources... _


End file.
